


we're still the same

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, wow hermann and newt are really in love huh?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: “Morning, sleepyhead,” Newton says; his voice soft, fingers playing across Hermann’s back.“Nng,” Hermann replies, opening his eyes a crack, and rolls over, coming face to face with the other. “It’s soearly,” he complains, “did youhaveto get me up?”There’s a quiet hum, and then the other says, “It’s notthatearly. It’s past ten.”“Early,” Hermann grumbles, eyes slipping back shut, and curls against the other; taking in the warmth of his skin pressing against his own; like sitting in sunshine on a warm day. Newton wraps an arm around him without comment; allows Hermann to tuck his head beneath his chin.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	we're still the same

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Newton says; his voice soft, fingers playing across Hermann’s back.

“Nng,” Hermann replies, opening his eyes a crack, and rolls over, coming face to face with the other. “It’s so _early,_ ” he complains, “did you _have_ to get me up?”

There’s a quiet hum, and then the other says, “It’s not _that_ early. It’s past ten.”

“Early,” Hermann grumbles, eyes slipping back shut, and curls against the other; taking in the warmth of his skin pressing against his own; like sitting in sunshine on a warm day. Newton wraps an arm around him without comment; allows Hermann to tuck his head beneath his chin.

It’s wonderful. Hermann can’t imagine his life without this; waking up in the morning with Newton by his side, eyes glinting and a smile quick to appear on his face.

The phantom of his wedding ring, sitting, now, on the bedside table, is still on his finger, and Hermann imagines, in his mind’s eye, again, the image of Newton’s proposal; of the earnestness in his tone when he said, “Hermann Gottlieb, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”

The thought of it warms him; sets butterflies alight in his stomach even now, almost a decade later; the joy of it coming to him suddenly in quiet moments like these.

As if on cue, Newton says, “I can hear you thinking.”

“You cannot,” Hermann shoots back, and opens his eyes; shifts so that he can look the other in the eye.

“Drift-bond,” Newton says with a grin; easy and soft.

“A tale for fools, as you well know,” Hermann points out. “The Drift doesn’t work like that, liebling.”

“Shh,” Newton says, and presses a kiss to his cheek; hand finding Hermann’s and entangling their fingers. “Stop being such a wet blanket, Hermann.”

“Doctor Gottlieb,” Hermann says, and they both smile at each other; the words more of a gentle ribbing now than the pointed, pained attempt at distance they were so many years ago, for Newton has grown on him, and Hermann has grown with him, and they now grow together.

Hermann squeezes the other’s hand in his; says, quietly, then, “Good morning, Newton.”

“ _Good_ is subjective,” Newton shoots back, because of course he does, and Hermann huffs and turns away. “Nooo, man, come back,” Newton protests.

“Absolutely not, Newton.”

“C'moooooon,” Newton says, and shifts, the action making the covers rustle, and then, a moment later, he’s propped up on his arm over Hermann. Hermann puts on a mock-scowl, which dissolves mere seconds later as Newton peppers his face with kisses, light and quick, and when Newton pulls away, he instinctively leans up, chasing the other’s lips.

Newton grins at him; hair sleep-tousled and eyes mercurial, shifting grey-green-blue in the morning light; grins at him like he’s seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time, expression awed; grins at Hermann like he’s a revelation. Hermann loves him.

“Gotcha,” he quips, breaking the moment, and Hermann groans; not terribly annoyed, really; and rolls over.

“New _ton,_ ” he says, tilting his head up at the other as innocently as he can manage, and Newton caves; captures his lips in a kiss; unsuspecting.

With near-vicious glee, Hermann presses in, hard; hears Newton’s half-swallowed squeak of surprise and takes it like a trophy; kisses him, messy and inelegant and not at all chaste in the slightest; tastes victory as Newton gives a sigh of content and reaches his hand up to grip the nape of Hermann’s neck; pull him in closer.

When they break apart, just far enough that they can breathe, Newton gives him a dazed look. “What’s that for?” he enquires.

“Nothing,” Hermann says, simply, and then: “I love you very much.”

“Mm,” Newton hums, “love you too, Herms.”

Hermann reaches out with the intent to brush a lock of hair from his forehead; winds up carding his fingers through the other’s hair instead, relishing the soft hum of content Newton gives at the action. “I need a haircut,” he murmurs, the sound half-muffled by how quietly it’s spoke, but Hermann hears him clearly, this close.

“A _cut?_ ” he says, “not just a _trim?_ ”

“…you just like my hair longer,” Newton accuses.

Hermann hums. “Well; it is _rather_ becoming,” he says.

“You think it makes me look _roguish,_ ” Newton counters.

“Shush,” Hermann says, scowling. “That is _slander._ ”

“Mmhm, sure,” drawls the biologist; eyes half-lidded. “Whatever you say, Herms.”

Hermann scowls harder; feels his cheeks and ears heating under the other’s gaze. “You’re awful,” he says, and starts to continue when he notices something odd on the other’s face. “Newton,” he says, slowly, “is that _blood?_ ”

“Huh? What?” the other asks, giving him a puzzled look, and it wavers for a moment before solidifying in his gaze.

“Your _eye,_ ” Hermann breathes; ringed an angry red, it gazes at Hermann balefully, the iris almost lost with how widely the pupil is dilated. His other eye is normal. “Newton, what—?”

He reaches out and finds he can’t touch the other; his hand goes through the biologist’s shoulder like some sort of projected image. “Newton?” he says, again, half-panicked, “Newton— _Newton!_ ”

“What’s wrong?” says Newton, but—no, no, that isn’t Newton, that _cannot_ possibly be Newton, because there’s something very, _very_ wrong with it. It’s got his face, and it’s giving him a puzzled look, but it’s _wrong,_ and when it reaches out, its fingers bear sharp, inky talons that rip into his flesh like heated metal. “What’s _wrooooooooooooooooooooong?_ ” he— _it_ repeats, mouth opening in ways no human mouth should be able to. “What's—w—what's—what’s wrong—what’s wrong—whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’s wrooooooooooong—”

Hermann recoils, horrified, as skin folds in on itself and dissolves like it’s been doused with acid, leaving nothing but a skeleton laced through with bright, white-blue veins.

White-blue.

Even in a state of panic, the colour triggers some forgotten memory in his mind.

“Drift,” he murmurs, the word soundless, and everything collapses around him. “Oh, God,” he says, floating, now, in a boundless, empty world, stretching on forever in every direction, up not discernible from down, “ _Newton._ ”

And suddenly, he’s clutching the rim of a sink and dry-heaving; legs and arms shaking.

Finally, he gains enough control to look around. His head pounds—with what, he can’t remember, other than that it was _terrifying._ A dream—that must be it. No; a nightmare. He must have been remembering something from the collective kaiju consciousness, from when he—when _they_ Drifted.

Something warm and coppery slips down his throat, and he winces; tilts his head forward again, watching blood drip into the sink. The sight reminds him of things he can’t remember, of shadows, and darkness, and a laugh he’s never truly heard; the press of lips he’s never truly felt.

By the time he gets out of the bathroom, the sun is rising; casting a pale, washed out light over his barren quarters.

He checks his phone. Five thirty; February seventh, 2034. A Saturday.

He sighs and crawls, exhausted, back under cold covers.

**Author's Note:**

> i apologise for absolutely nothing.
> 
> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
